sticks & stones
by Appointment
Summary: Love and hate can measure themselves out. Gabrielle has a lot on her  mind when it comes to her sister, Fleur.


**A/N: Hmm, I don't really know what to say about this one! A bit of a challenge to myself. This was written for the Sibling Rivalry Competition, in Gabrielle's point of view. I don't know what struck me to write it this way, but my mind started running rampant! I did not write in Fleur-speak, because in my mind, it didn't make much sense to me. I mean, Gabrielle's point of view, Fleur wouldn't have such a full-sounding accent.. if that makes any sense! Oh, and finally, I've always imagined Beauxbatons to start earlier than Hogwarts, and end later. So, that's why there's an _eighth year_. Do leave a review, puuurlease. :) My disclaimer? I'm in highschool. I don't own Harry Potter.**

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><p><em><span>sticks and stones<span>_

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><p>You want to be mature, and beautiful, even at eight years old.<p>

You are quite merely the little girl with the platinum curls, flouncing down the cobblestone path in the garden, hands buried in her pockets, lips pressed out like she's whistling, or _something_.

Fleur looks down from the window, sipping from a china cup, slightly disapproving. You know you're late to come in, the sun's already started setting. Rushing to the front doors of home, although still graciously. You meet _her_ in the bedroom, because being younger, you're supposed to be productive with your time, but you don't have _anything_ to do – you've already gotten your bags packed, you've already studied.

"_Vous êtes un peu en retard_,_ soeur chérie_," says your elder sister, not turning from the vanity mirror, "You are all finished, ready to go?" Her voice is thick and heavy with a proud accent.

"_English_?"

You raise an eyebrow in the mirror, and Fleur would be most dim if she hadn't caught it.

"I need practice, dear sister – I cannot be expected to meet anyone at Hogwarts if I cannot speak proper English."

Fleur shifts in the mirror, a long curtain of white gold cascading down her back, and she puts only the slightest bit of rouge on her lips. It's almost instinct; you grasp your elder sister's hair only gently, and tie it in a chignon.

"_Tue es belle_, sister." you murmur, because even _you_ are in awe sometimes; when you aren't picking it all apart.

Fleur purses her lips, only slightly.

"I know."

You – _as much as you'd love to_ – can't force a smile at the response, because while Fleur is darling, sixth year daughter, you are still the beginner; so much less skilled, lacking the _beauty_ and the _talent_ you've come to watch your sister acquire. You can't help but think that she knows what you're thinking, because more than suddenly, she smiles at you. She gets up from her seat in front of the mirror, and cups your cheek, bending slightly. She places a kiss on your forehead.

"_Bonne nuit. J'ai besoin mon sommeil de beauté, comme vous, petite sœur_." she says quietly, though almost crossly. "_Je t'aime, _Gabrielle."

You murmur the same words, and saunter off to your bedroom, because as Fleur put it – in such a _beautifully irate_ voice – you do need your beauty sleep.

The next morning, _Père _takes you to the train station first because your lovely _soeur_ needs her alone time with Maman, and you can't _not_ object to leaving. You find her just before you board the train; black stockings, only slightly translucent, blush coat swinging just above her knees and sunlight curls, just below her shoulders – and her eyes are just a little red and puffy – but you don't ask questions; you never do.

Of course, she always sits with her friends, and you always sit with yours, it would be no other way. They giggle about boys and make snarky comments about the girls who they just absolutely detest, but you've never done the same. You talk about summer holidays and birthday presents with your friends, but you wonder if maybe, one day, you'll be just like them. You're hoping, and you're hating.

You go looking for your uniform when you're just a little closer to school, because _stupid_, _stupid_ you left your bags with her. The door is locked, and you only wonder why when you take out your wand and charm it free; you only slide the door a little. You have just enough common sense to know that locked doors mean you're not supposed to be opening them.

Of course, you're only looking for a set of robes and your shoes, but instead, you find _précieuses Fleur_ with her perfectly rouged lips up against _eighth year_ Étienne Molyneux's, and her hands pulling at his undone dress shirt, which _so obviously_ had never been buttoned up in the first place. You're a little wide-eyed – though nothing you haven't seen before, even for how _young_ you are – quietly watching from the tiniest of slits in the door, and you don't have the self-control to stop yourself from naming her a _tart_ in your head.

You wonder what it's like to play – _who are you kidding_; _be_ perfect, and you wonder what it's like to have boys clawing at your heel.

Sunshine leaks through thin curtains, bowing softly to hug the soft frame of their bodies. She's willowy and enchanting – something you're not, something you fear you'll never be, so the only thing you can do is hate it when he whispers her name. You feel sick, sick to your stomach even though it's nothing surprising – there were others, like _Christophe Besette, Sébastien Rousseau_ or that one boy who you don't really remember. _Thierry_, was it? It is then that you decide you'd rather get in trouble for being unprepared than interrupt your sister's _rendez-vous d'amour_.

You're burdened by Professor Fournier when she scolds you for not having dressed properly, and Fleur herself gives you a disapproving look. You're disappointed for a reason you can barely explain, and you're angry for all the right ones.

Madame Maxime gives her speech, and in a flurry of normalcy, you're ushered into the carriage, and your sister smiles excitedly at you. You smile back, and she grasps your hand tightly. Before you really know it, you're at a rather unfamiliar school, walking through an unfamiliar hall, with plenty of unfamiliar eyes on you – well, maybe not _you_, but the others. Your sister being one of them, without a doubt. The headmaster, a blue-eyed man with a long beard, speaks kindly to you all, and speaks of the tournament that held commonplace in all conversation in the carriage.

You stir your spoon around in a bowl of bouillabaisse, the proceedings slightly boring – you're _much too young_ to do anything, really.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and place it in the Goblet of Fire," said the Headmaster, "Students will have twenty-four hours to enter themselves."

He then said something about underage students, which had already been predicted – you've already heard about how _terribly dangerous_ the tournament is. Fleur turns her head and looks at you excitedly.

"_Comment excitant_ – _oh mon dieu_, Gabrielle!" she whispers to you, "This is it."

"_Vous allez entrer_?" you ask, because it isn't exactly solid in your mind yet.

"But of course! It is too stirring; there would be no other way."

The next day, it's quite early in the morning, but you've come to see her anyways. You look at her; a porcelain doll like the ones in your bedroom, only with never-ending milk legs and a bit of a glow you don't have yet. She enters her name on a sheet of silk, not parchment, and it's _oh-so Fleur, _but you smile and congratulate her; she's your sister, and you love her, no matter how much you hate her.

Then, there are the dragons as that first task, or whatever it's called. You find yourself overcome with worry, clogging your very throat as you watch her manoeuvre around such a large beast, her leg being painfully singed though not lost; your breath hitching with every narrow escape. You're jealous, but you're not – especially when she comes out just fine, and does the waltz with that Davies boy who asked her to the Yule Ball. You don't have anyone to go with, so you sit quite alone behind an ice sculpture, and it's not in your interest anymore when she leaves the ball with none other than Cedric Diggory, fellow champion, and not her decided date.

You don't question what you see anymore – it's her choice, isn't it?

But you forget it; your sister is an adult now, isn't she?

She is.

So, let's skip forward just a little bit right up to when you find it hard to remember how or why, but you were suspended underwater, and you were saved by the Potter boy who everyone seems to detest – well, except for you and Fleur now – he did save your life, after all.

She pulled you into her arms, kissing you on the forehead with chilly lips repeatedly, freezing your skin solid; you felt more like a sister than you had in a little while – you still do.

"Gabrielle – you're safe – _dieu merci, mon chéri_!" she said to you, and then she pulled you so tight you felt as if you were underwater once more.

Then after many, many months of something like sheer chaos, you're watching your _cher, sœur aînée_ marry to one of a fairly redheaded family, and you're tying her hair in a chignon once more. She's getting married, even when everything around her has gone to _shit_ in full reality; you can't even deny it.

Everything's beautiful, everything's nice – that is, until everything catches up with such a sweet little occasion – and while you're being strung along by _maman et papa,_ saying dearest goodbyes to your sister as if you'll never see her again; it's actually funny, because you might not. And in the midst of the panic, you enjoy being small, you enjoy being the doll-eyed girl living amongst the background noise.

Fleur kisses you on the forehead and pulls her close before William – or Bill, they call him – takes her away, somewhere quite safe.

It's one of those nights when she loves you, wanting to hold you close forevermore, never allowing you to grow up, never ceasing to be your older sister.

But then, you fear that perhaps in the morning, it'll be one of _those_ mornings – the ones when she forgets you're hers, when she forgets you exist.

You hope to yourself that amidst all of the pandemonium, she never forgets the little girl with the platinum curls, flouncing down the cobblestone path in the garden, hands buried in her pockets, lips pressed out to whistle.

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><p><em>Don't leave this without a review, please!<em>


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